


The last time I saw you we had just split in two

by Anonymous



Series: ASMR sensual clown noises to kiss your man to [3]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Richie Tozier is a LIAR, Weddings, crack-isque
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 00:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30064014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “It’s Myra’s aunt. Don’t know how she got my number,” Eddie raises up an eyebrow, scrolling through the messages swarming his screen as soon the phone’s off flight mode.“Did you tell her we met on Christian Mingle ?”Richie has a thousand tales about how he got together with Eds, because who’s gonna believe the space clown story anyway.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: ASMR sensual clown noises to kiss your man to [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2186145
Comments: 20
Kudos: 94
Collections: anonymous





	The last time I saw you we had just split in two

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! Me again. This is a fast and loose one ngl. The concept is inspired by [this amazing rogue one fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9127249) (listen... I was going through some stuff)
> 
> tw: appearance of a homophobic relative.
> 
> The story is unbeta’d so please forgive my mistakes.

When the conversation first comes up, he’s sitting in a podcast studio giving full concentration to the ingredients on a water bottle. Vapored distilled water, it reads, calcium chloride and magnesium chloride and potassium bicarbonate, _added for taste_. 

Isn’t that fun, Richie thinks, he’s been dumping this thing into his body for forty years and never once has he questioned its flavor. _Hey chief, extra chloride please? No potassium- I don’t like the mouth feel. Makes me think of fire extinguishers._ Shit might just be dumb enough to work five years down the road, considering the state of things. He’s so absorbed in this imagined scenario that the host— Joe, last name bot Rogan’s voice almost makes him jump out of his seat.

“Alright! Bathroom break over.” The mousy haired man settles down across the table, offering him a closed-mouthed, affiliative smile. “You okay there, bud?”

“Yup.” Richie pushes the water bottle away. “I’m ready.”

“Wonderful. Recording now,” Joe clears his throat. “So, Richie- You’re back,” he gestures to Richie’s general directions. “After nearly a year of hiatus.”

“Yes, you can say that.”

“We missed you a lot, Trashmouth.” He continues. “Anything that influenced your decision to return?”

“Well, I did this very mature thing, where I type my own name into Google every few weeks to see what comes up. There was a section, when you scroll down, called People Also Searched For- y’know what I’m talking about?”

“Of course.”

“Reading that was always a thrilling experience. It felt like I was hiding under the table during my own PTA meeting, like it should be wrong for me to have that information,” Richie charades the concept of wrongness. “Usually it went: Richie Tozier Height. Richie Tozier Netflix special. Richie Tozier net worth— there’s no way I worth that much, by the way, unless I have an oversea account so secret that not even myself know it. That, or they actually appraised my organs piece by piece and added them together. I have- I don’t know how the science works- but I might have some pretty big organs.”

“You’re a very broad man.” The host testifies.

“Thank you.” Richie nods appreciatively. “Sorry for sidetracking, I was just fishing for that compliment. Anyway, one day I was scrolling through the results, then the top suggestion became _Where is Richie Tozier now_ ,” he continues. “And I knew it was time to come back.”

“Because you need to sustain your presence.”

“No,” Richie shrugs. “Because I _really_ need people to learn more about my height.”

Joe the host laughs. “Right. That was actually a good question. Where were you then, for the past few months? I heard all sorts of rumors: you were gonna be on the Bachelorette. You went on a spiritual journey to Tibet. You joined Hare Krishna-”

“That one is true.” Richie ruffles a hand through his hair. “You guys can’t see me now- because _audio media_ , but I am actually completely bald.” 

“Completely. I didn’t even recognize him when he came in,” Joe deadpans into the microphone. “Anything else beside the style change?”

“Sure. I was,” _busy surviving and remembering things, re-evaluating everything I thought I knew, because I’d been playing a convoluted jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces stolen and the other half scratched up._ “Preparing some new materials.”

“We all look forward to it.”

“I also spent quite some time,” _finding and holding and kissing the love of my life, while he’s gasping for life in my arms in the sewer in an ambulance in the emergency room under anesthesia in my car in my bed in my arms gasping for life again._ “-Enjoying life with my partner.”

Joe corks his head and raises up his eyebrows like he’s urgently making more space for his eyes. The reaction is understandable, since Richie’s previous standup career was basically a mishmash of toned-down dick and ball jokes (for the younger audiences) with ghostly hinges of his haunting fear for commitment, as well as crushing loneliness (for more advanced audiences, which there were probably three). 

“Your _partner_ ,” he echoes, before showing Richie two straight lines of teeth. “Congrats, man. That’s huge news. Anything to share? Not that we’re TMZ.”

“Sure. We were my childhood friend,” Richie feels his shoulders relaxing at that word. He can talk about Eddie all day, and half of it should be safe for public consumption. “And we recently reconnected.”

“Hm! If you don’t mind talking about that story-”

“Of course not,” Richie starts, remembering how the winds of Derry tasted somewhat like burned fire matches and how they effectively started the reunion by trashing an innocent Chinese restaurant. How could he describe the cookie incident (sounds so much cuter than what it is) without having people take it as some sort of terrible metaphor? 

Only then does it occur to him that there’s no easy way, if any way at all, of telling the epic story of how Richie met Eddie take two featuring _Evil_ _Space Clown_. Who would believe that- Joe certainly wouldn’t. Joe has a look in his eyes that says he was too old when he watched The X-files and way too young when he heard about Coast to Coast AM. 

So.

Richie crosses his hands together, tracing the tip of his nails with his thumb. “Actually- can you cut that last part out?”

  
  
  
  


The most ambiguous beginning of a love story, as it turns out, is _we met at a party_ . Sure, it sounds grossly college-y and makes people question you as a person; because nowadays when you’re forty years old, _party_ can mean absolutely _anything_ , with most of them more or less morally ambiguous— but at least it rolls off the tongue. 

We met at a party. My friend Stan’s. Ben’s. Bev’s. My buddy Mike’s. Mike who- Mike Birbiglia? No no, Mike from Derry, that’s where I was born. You don’t know him. 

He’s a historian. 

“It just doesn’t make sense to me,” his manager opines cautiously. “That you forgot your name on stage, nearly threw up; bailed on your meet and greet; went MIA for a whole week to go to this party at _Mike_ ’s _. Mike the Historian._ ”

Richie takes a sip from his beer.

“Well, it was a really good party.”

“Don’t pull that shit with me, Rich, what you do in your private life is none of my business. I don’t care if you live on a nudist colony with the fucking- Templi Orientis,” she sighs. “We’ve worked together for so long. I know you’ve been through some rough patches.”

“Ah.”

“You know what I meant.”

“The only thing I’m high on is a healthy self esteem. I’m cleaner than Vin Diesel’s hairbrush.” Richie assures. “And it won’t change.”

“No matter how tough things get, there’s always a way to help.”

“I know.” _Like being pulled down back to earth from an actual soul-corrupting ray of deadlight._ “And I appreciate that.”

His manager narrows her eyes, lips pursed, studying him over her glasses. Richie grabs a spring of fries, chewing slowly. He thinks he passed the test.

  
  
  
  


Eddie’s still in New York figuring out his new life. He has jobs to hop and ties to sever before the potential big move across the country— not unlike Richie’s first few years after college. They text, they Skype a lot, and Richie tries to fly over every two weeks so he can tuck Eddie into a hug and hear his name be called without that added dullness from lossy compression. 

“Richie Tozier.”

“Yes.” _Like that._

“Put that down,” Eddie crosses his arms. The bag of organic tomatoes dangles on his wrist, knocking against his side rhythmically. “Now.”

“Why, It’s free. The guy said it was artisan.” Richie snorts, delicately pinching the piece of bone shaped substance and floats it under his nose, pinky in the air. “It smells like chicken.”

“It’s fucking dog biscuit.”

“Are you saying you won’t break bread with your dog?” Richie gasps dramatically like he needs a fainting couch. “In front of the whole farmers market?”

“I am.”

“Ow. Touché.”

“I’m never kissing you again if you put that thing in your mouth.” Eddie hisses. “I’m dead serious.”

“You’re telling me now, after I flew six hours across the continent for those coochies.” A kid glares up curiously as he passes by. Richie flashes the mother an apologetical smile for revealing the harsh truth of adulthood to an actual baby. 

He takes a bite from the dog biscuit. 

It tastes salty, like a Ritz Cracker without soul.

“Jesus fuck,” Eddie grabs his wrist, trying to wrestle the biscuit away. His whole face is scrunched together like a little pug, and it’s 10/10 very adorable. Richie fondly nuzzles a hand toward the back of Eddie’s head, giving him a little cowlick. 

They probably shouldn’t do this in front of the holistic herbal tea lady in bell sleeves, because Richie does want a few packs of _Color Me Lavender_ later, except that she actually looks kind of amused.

“I have the right to enjoy _my_ food.” 

“Richie I swear to-” 

“Eddie?” A figure enters the edge of his vision. “Eddie Kaspbrak?” 

A stout man, wearing an Eagles hoodie and khakis, holding a floral tote bag in his hand; a shiny golden watch sits squarely on his wrist, big and Rolex-y enough to explain the confidence in his struts. His voice is low, slightly frying.

“Wow, uh,” Eddie’s fingers snap away from Richie’s arm. “Mr. Platt?”

“Oh my, it is you!” The man squeezes out a huge grin. “How are you doing, man? Haven’t seen you in a while,” he glances at Richie, who’s still squishing against Eddie holding a bitten dog biscuit in his hand, painfully dogless— and briskly darts his eyes away. “You still with the firm?”

“Yeah, for the moment.” Eddie nods. His spine straightens up knot by knot from bottom to top, and his smile says clearly that _this is all business_.

“Thank god, I thought you left. The new guy they assigned me, Colin? Very hard to talk to. I asked your boss to switch you back, or at least give me Janice-”

“That’s unfortunate. But Colin is very well versed in auto business.”

“Well, something about that guy’s personality- My wife didn’t like him one bit. She’s back there getting some coffee beans,” Platt-the-client gestures behind him. “Hey, how’s Myra? We’re having a 4th of July cookout with the neighbors, you guys should totally come.”

Eddie’s shoulders stiffen, and Richie’s heart drops a little. Platt-the-client, seemingly unable to read the air whatsoever, looks at him expectantly. 

“Myra and I have separated.” Eddie replies, softly grasping Richie’s jacket begins his back.

“Oh. Sorry to hear that.” Platt-the-client frowns. 

For a moment Richie thinks he’s going to walk away, but Mr. Platt only stands his ground, leaning onto the table beside him like he’s making a cozy little nest right in between the produce aisles. 

“Geez. I didn’t- It must be hard, getting marital problems at this age.” He winces. “Lovers' quarrel is all. I’m sure you guys can work it out some time soon.”

“I don’t think so. Not this time.” Eddie’s voice is getting even more strained. 

“Come on. You gotta think positive, bud. You and Myra? You guys are such a good team together.”

“Thank You, but-”

“Maybe I’ll still jolt you guys down for the cookout! Just in case the situation passes.”

“Sorry,” Eddie tries again. “I don’t think we can-”

“Well,” Platt-the-client chortles. “Buy her some flowers, make it a nice date. I’m sure the lady will understand.”

_God fucking damn it._

“What Eddie meant was,” Richie opens his mouth, voice stronger than he intended. “He’s not in a relationship with Myra anymore, so they’re not coming to your barbecue together.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Platt-the-client finally quiets down. He looks at Eddie, slightly reddened. “That true?”

Eddie nods.

“And you are?”

“He’s my boyfriend,” Eddie says, before Richie can make up an answer. 

Platt’s mouth slowly drops open, like he’s just realizing something— his eyes flick between Eddie and Richie, and finally sweep to the side. 

He seems slightly uncomfortable, and Richie knows, and he knows _Eddie knows_ just exactly what this guy’s thinking— that Eddie’s a cheater. That he abandoned his family to run off with this glasses wearing, bum steering, dog food eating backdoor Sasquatch man. And he’s gonna _tell_ , oh yes, he’s gonna _tell every single person he knows in this big ol’ world_.

And Richie won’t let him.

“Eds and I met at a support group for recently separated,” Richie announces loudly, as Platt starts turning around and mumbling about going to find his wife. He gives his best bitter smile. “My partner left me a year ago. He had a secret life- I had no idea- he was a very kind man. We used to live in SoCal.”

Platt-the-client halts his steps. “That’s real far from here.” 

“It is,” Richie pauses. “He left on our anniversary. I waited for months, alone in our house, until the INTERPOL knocked on our door.”

“The _INTERPOL_?”

“That’s right,” and Richie tries to push down a smirk while Eddie stares at him like his head is installed backward. “Money laundering.” He continues. “He had six passports, all in different names, a handful of shell companies too. Two offshore accounts, one in Switzerland, one in Armenia, dealing out billions monthly— and the whole time I thought we were in the rubber business.” Richie adds. “The material, not condoms.”

“Damn, man,” Platt gasps audibly. “That’s crazy.”

“It was absolutely insane. Imagine my shock when I found out- He was doing business with a Russian mob. Like, in actual Russia. In Saint Petersburg. That’s why I moved to New York, getting my life back together,” Richie loops an arm around Eddie’s shoulder. “And I bonded with Eds through our shared trauma.” 

He takes in a deep breath.

“I think they’re still trying to track me down, with this bossman called something _Siski_. It’s still a fucking- ongoing investigation.” Richie pinches his nose and sighs deeply, drawing air from his chest. “Man, I shouldn’t have said that. Fucking hell, the police told me not to, but I just- you know- I talk too much sometimes, and you seem like such a nice person.”

Platt-the-client’s fingers grips tightly around his Tote bag. A woman power walks toward them, waving gleefully.

“I think your wife’s coming.”

“Yeah- That’s Cheryl.”

“I’d appreciate it if you don’t talk about this to anyone, Mr. Platt.” Richie adds, looking into his eyes with extra sincerity. “I’d _really_ appreciate it.”

“Yeah, right.” The man stutters. “Of course.” 

Eddie stares at Richie as Platt walks away, steering his wife toward the opposite direction until they both vanish behind a table piled with squashes and gourds. Richie lets out a long sign he’s been holding in for the past five minutes.

He throws that dog biscuit into his pocket.

“What, the fuck,” Eddie falters. “Was that?”

“I don’t know,” Richie admits. “Just trying to help. Hm- Please don’t be mad?”

And Eddie trills out a short laugh, then another one, until the pieces of laughter form into a wheezing derecho that trembles all the way across his back and chest. Richie feels it all through his body via their linked hands.

  
  
  
  
  


**rich in friendship** @trashmouthtozier

That’s right. I met my boyfriend in a mushroom ring behind my apartment. 

I hope this adequately explains my recent hiatus

5:17 AM September 12 via Twitter for iPhone

  
  
  
  


**rich in friendship** @trashmouthtozier

I met my boyfriend during a noble duel (bare knuckle fight) in a field of honor (Trader Joe’s parking lot)

1:43 PM September 23 via Twitter for iPhone

**Stan the Man** @stanbyme0713

@trashmouthtozier were you stealing Eddie’s soy milk or 

1:55 PM September 23 via Twitter for iPhone

  
  
  
  
  


**rich in friendship** @trashmouthtozier

met my boyfriend at the Reptile Super Show, He really liked my anaconda ;););)

11:27 PM December 2 via Twitter for iPhone

  
  
  
  
  


Richie sits in the driver seat, waiting. It’s a nice day, warm for a New York winter; the thin layer of snow from last night is melting under the sun, lining the edges of rooftops like silver bound seams, or something Ozzy would have snorted in his earlier years. 

He feels anxious. And joy. But mostly anxious.

The heavier emotion comes from Eddie, who’s settling his divorce in the beige building thirty feet away. The lighter also comes from Eddie, whose name’s printed on one of the two one-way tickets currently sitting in his glove department, a wishful token. They can leave tomorrow while waiting for the finalization, if all the paperwork— _when_ all the paperwork is accepted and processed, hopefully in an hour or two. They’ll fly first class, chug in so many shitty airplane wines that they’ll pass out in their seats. Then they’ll be in LA, together.

For now, he worries. He thinks of the bass line from N.I.B. for distraction, but it doesn’t help much. 

Richie feels like he needs to take a leak.

The AC is high in the hallway, and Richie’s sweating in his jacket. People pass him by as he tries to locate the restroom, most of them silent and stern faced, giving Richie no clue whether they’re a Saul Goodman or a Kim Wexler. He doesn’t know which room Eddie’s in, but he hopes the temperature is lower in there, since Eds’ wearing those power suits he loves too much to sweat in.

A woman is waiting at the door when Richie steps out the restroom.

“I know who you are,” she says, swaying a hand toward the ceiling. “You’re an animal.”

“Sorry,” Richie runs her face through his memory. There are a dozen people with actual incentives for that judgement, but none of them look like a miniature Miss Trunchbill. “Do I know you?”

“I’m Myra’s aunt.” The woman hisses. “She showed me your picture. I recognize your face- You are the man who ruined _her family_.”

Two or three bystanders give over their business and look up at them. Richie honors that, for he too is a slut for drama, and what they’re putting on is some good succulent cable TV level content. He _can_ just disengage. It would be easy, since they’re standing right in front of the men's restroom that Richie can simply moonwalk backward into—

“I’m not sure if there was so much to ruin,” Richie says, because he doesn’t know better.

“What- They were a happy, lovely couple! They were talking about having _children_!”

“I don’t think they’d agree on that, ma’am,” Myra and Eddie, however difficult it was, have reached a basic mutual understanding in the aftermath. “I sympathize with your situation, but all due respect, your niece was married to a gay man.”

“Edward was a wonderful husband,” Aunt Trunchbill insists. “It was all you. You turned him into a homosexual.”

“Wow,” _Homosexual_. Richie savors it in his mouth. “That’s very flattering.”

“I hope you’re happy now, leading a decent man on that path with your vile lifestyle-”

Richie looks at the tip of her finger pointing into his nose. What a sentiment, enough to make him nostalgic; only that instead of a self-hating, mask-wearing small town lad, Richie Tozier is now a fresh-out-of-the-closet adult whose most recent movie purchases include _The Birdcage_ , _To Wong Foo_ and _Priscilla_ — oh, sweet sweet Priscilla.

“Actually, yes, I am,” Richie crosses his arms in front of his chest, switching to a soft, almost drifty voice because two can play this game. “I’m glad I reacquainted him with perspicuity, when such a large portion of our life have been reduced to flippant lies.”

Taken aback by his sudden change of tone, Aunt Trunchbill looks like whatever she planned to preach just got gagged back in her throat.

“I knew Eddie had a good heart soon after we started talking,” Richie takes a step forward as a couple more eavesdroppers tilt their heads toward him. “He was only looking for someone to confide in, because the truth was killing him inside- he could no longer bear the pain- that he was deriving Myra the life she could have lived. She deserved a man who truly _loves_ her.” _Which she does, not that you actually care._ “And in the end, Eddie made the sacrifice. Myra too. They both made the right choice.”

“They don’t know what’s good for them!” Aunt Trunchbill fumes. “Who the hell- You are _not_ in the position to lecture me.”

“I’ve worked as a spiritual mentor for twenty years, ma’am.” Richie notes. A snooper purses their lips, nodding agreededly at him. 

“You are a filthy homewrecker-”

“Home is a lot more than a dining table and a flat screen TV,” Richie breezes out a disappointed sigh. “I hope you can learn that one day, and to find peace from within your own heart.”

He checks his phone. Eddie hasn’t called him yet, and Aunt Trunchbill, despite shaking like she’s about to explode in muted fury, is now trapped here in Purgatorio di Riccardo by her own stubbornness. Plus, Richie has now acquired a small yet supportive audience.

“If it would calm your soul feel better- I’ll tell you the story of how Eddie and I met. It’s quite inspiring,” He says. “It started in early spring, when the days were getting longer, and I had just finished my training cycle of Kundalini yoga…”

  
  
  
  


They didn’t have nearly enough shitty white wine on the way to LA.

“It’s Myra’s aunt. Don’t know how she got my number,” Eddie raises up an eyebrow, scrolling through the messages swarming his screen as soon the phone’s off flight mode. “Did you tell her we met on _Christian Mingle_?”

  
  
  
  


It’s a strange and marveling experience— something Richie didn’t believe could acquire, not in a long time— to _be with someone_. You wake up with warm feet, pressed against another person’s shins; your coffee runs out twice as fast; there’s always a hand to hold when you want to, dumb jokes you can now say out loud in exchange for fond eye rolls or held back giggles. You’re a phyle of two, Fireball and Tabasco sauce, fellow cowboys in a big enough town.

It feels good.

Eddie lands a job in a consulting company. He says it’s not half bad. Richie’s been trying out some materials at a ring of comedy clubs with more hits than misses, so the cycle of career and fame soon catches him on again. He has paparazzi now, a few of them, who soon realize that the forty something gay standup has no intention in keeping his relationship a secret. The titles on gossip sites switch quickly from “Richie Tozier spotted with mysterious man at West Hollywood hot spot” (they were trying to find the Wallace house in Halloween) to “Richie Tozier offers boyfriend passionate embrace at downtown grocery store” (he was physically barring Eddie from the soy milk- god, ew). 

When interviewers— the more casual ones— ask about their story, Richie would gladly provide a vivid recap of _Magic Mike_ or _Magic Mike XXL_ , describing his troubled past as male entertainer Rich the Racks, winning over his suit-wearing true love not with a thong-rocking hot body but with the kindness in his heart. At times he’ll throw in some _Pretty Woman_ , or even _Sleepless in Seattle_ for good measure. It becomes one of his _things_ : Richie Tozier, spinning tall tales about his love life, so some will prompt him on with such expectations.

“Truth be told, Eddie saved my ass from a murderous clown.” He says, one time. “But I’ve loved him long before that, since we were both kids. Even before we jumped that freak the first time.”

The clip is put on YouTube— _05:40, Trashmouth makes a reference to Killer Klowns from Outer Space. Oldie but goodie_ — one comment reads _._

Not intentional, but not unreasonable either. Richie gives it a thumbs up.

  
  
  
  
  


“Oh! You’re that- comedian guy. You have a thing on Netflix.” Eddie’s new boss pats on Richie’s shoulder, cheeks red with perhaps too much champagne. “My grandkids love you.”

He shakes his head lovingly, feeling a tinsy bit sorry for the corruption of youth. “That’s not concerning at all.”

“...What was that?”

“Nothing, Mrs. Fisher,” Eddie waltzes beside him from nowhere, reeling an arm across his lower back warningly. “Richie can be a little chatty when he drinks.”

“Helps with being the comedian guy. Blabbed myself a living- after I blabbed through common core maths, ,” Richie nods, covering Eddie’s hand with his, squeezing gently. “Blabbed me this guy.”

Mrs.Fisher laughs, a swipe of Meryl Streep bangs bounces on her forehead.

“You’re a charming jokester, Richie. I’m glad Eddie brought you,” she notes. “Seems like you kids have some history.”

Eddie takes the glass off Richie’s hand, sitting it on the buffet table. “It’s not that interesting. We’ve known each other since grade school.” Eddie‘s eyes crinkle like he couldn’t help it. “He was a terrible kid.”

“That was mostly Eds’ fault. I spent too much time pulling his piggytails while he was getting those A’s.”

“As I said,” Eddie shrugs. “Terrible.”

A young woman slips in by the table. Mrs. Fisher aises her glass toward them, amusement in her eyes. “Excuse us, gentlemen.”

Eddie nods and walks Richie away while he grabs one more piece of Stromboli, hand still settling on his waist like a bird on branches. He looks relaxed, blithful even, with the bright light from chandlers illuminating his hair and forehead and those thick, lovely brows, beading glistens on the buttons of his shirt. They circle the tables a couple more times, make rounds of small talks about this and that, until the night is no longer young and nearly two thirds of the bottles in the hallroom are empty.

“Balcony?” Richie asks. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

“Sure.” Eddie answers, the knot on his tie half loosened. “The weather’s nice tonight.”

Richie leans against the balustrade. A black Porsche backs out from the parking space below them, two red dots riding further and further away until they’re one with the city lights. 

“It’s crazy,” Eddie starts. 

“Huh?”

“It’s crazy,” he continues. “That we’re not kids anymore.”

Richie laughs quietly. “Nice midlife crisis you got there, Eds, way to go.”

“Oh, shut up,” Eddie snorts. “You really haven’t changed. How is that even possible.”

“I got taller,” Richie gestures at his crown, finding himself strolling in a shallow of reminiscence. “Jeez. Remember when you were into that band- _Spin Doctors_?”

“Hell no. I was _never_ into Spin Doctors.”

“Yes you were,” Richie insists. “Everytime we have a sleepover, you made me listen to that shitty album- What’s it called? Something about Superman.”

“ _Pocket full of Kryptonite._ ” Eddie chuckles, shaking his head.

“See?” 

“Nah, I only played it to get a rise out of you. You really hated it- You’d wrestle me down to change the tracks.” He mimics in a breathy, high pitched voice. “ _I don’t want this poser bullshit! Chris Barron can suck my ass!_ ”

“I didn’t sound like that.” Richie protests.

He feels oddly abetted, knowing Eddie still remembers, knowing his petty little motives. He thinks of that summer, Eddie with that cast on his arm. _Lover_.

“You know who still holds up? _Sublime_ .” He hums, tapping on the fence reel. “ _Baby you’re a big blue whale-_ ”

Eddie closes his eyes, taking in a drawled out breath. He slips his tie off, folding it into his pocket.

“You teased me a lot back then,” Eddie turns to face him, lashes fluttering.

“It’s called loving banters,” Richie drops his head down and laughs. “Cause I liked you. I’ve always liked you.”

“You never did it to Stan- not that much.”

“Guess I just didn’t like him that much,” Richie replies. “Not in that way, at least.” He pauses, smirking. “Don’t tell him though, I got to keep my options open.”

“What, in case I bail?”

“Yeah. In case the spell I put on you wears off.” Richie answers. “The straw dolls can only last that long. Like the career of Spin Doctors.”

Eddie chuckles. He moves forward for a kiss, and Richie closes the distance. Eddie tastes like campfire and sparkling wine. His stubbles scrub on his face, gently tickling.

“You’re beautiful, Eds.” Richie whispers against his lips. “Don’t know what to do without you.”

“You’re tipsy.”

“Maybe. God, I’m such a fucking lightweight now.” He breaths. “Let’s call a cab home.”

“Alright,” Eddie kisses him again, fingers lingering on his nape.

  
  
  
  
  


Hey grandma Sophia, Happy name day! It’s Richie again. Don’t know why I’m still doing this. Last time I saw you I was like, four. Maybe I’m doing this for me. 

Anyway, some crazy stuff happened last year. I’ll save you the details (in case stress is still a thing up there, or down there, or somewhere beyond, no judgement). I went back to Derry, met with some friends, had a near death experience— You know, things a person does in their forties. Rites of passage kind of deal. 

I’m with someone now. Eddie Kaspbrak, little guy, kinda jumpy, big frown. Amazing eyebrows. You’d like him (oh you will. He wears a lot of suits. He’s proper). He got stabbed for me. I stayed by his bed, cried all over him as soon as he woke up, snot and everything. We went back to LA together— I don’t know why he agreed. I asked him out while we were unpacking. He didn’t say yes. He used some curse words, actually, and he got on his tiptoes— again, saving you the details. It was rude. So maybe he’s not that proper.

I love him a lot. Maybe too much. 

We’re thinking about getting a cat.

  
  
  
  


To the caterers, Richie and Eddie met on a wine tour in southern France, started their engagement at a brasserie in Nantes that’s famous for their Rum Baba.

To their photographer, the pair was practically made by Beverly Marsh, who had introduced them at her very first, dazzling launch party. Miss Marsh will be sure to go over the wedding photos and pick out her favorites, since she’s graciously provided the suits, the shoes, the deco advice and so very much more. (“Sure,” Bev agrees. “I’ll offer your guy a gig. Tell him to email me if you liked the pictures.”)

Bill is leaning against the open bar in his summer suit sipping Long Island from a straw, when Richie decides he’s feeling one more Pina Colada. 

“I heard you talking to the b-band,” he perks up an eyebrow teasingly. “Didn’t know you h-hooked up with Eddie at a- Scissor Sisters concert.”

“That, my dear good sir, was clearly a metaphor,” Richie replies. “ _All the world’s a stage, and I don’t feel like dancing._ Ya boy Shakespeare.”

“I apologize,” Bill laughs, teeth shiny. “And congratulations, bro.”

He watches Eddie from afar. His _husband_ is doing some sort of competitive Polka dance with Mike, head thrown back, heels knocking on the grass fast and clumsily, almost digging up dried mud. Bev’s clapping for them a few steps away, summer dress flourishing against the garden shrubs. Behind the table, Stan and Patty are sharing a plate with Ben. The sun is blinding, and Richie can barely make out their faces, only their silhouettes shifting forward when something assumptively amusing is exchanged.

As if to remunerate for the grey, sullen shit fuck of a shell he used to take life as, all he can see or breath now is airy vividity. 

“This is the happiest I’ve ever been,” Richie answers, although there isn’t actually a question. “What the fuck.”

Richie feels like he could cry. He turns to Bill, who’s still looking to Eddie and Mike’s general direction.

“I always k-knew that you two would make it.”

“Really,” Richie sniffles, taking a sip from his drink. “I didn’t even believe that.”

“It was obvious.”

“Was it?” Richie inquires. “Since when?”

“You were making- googly eyes at each other, at the Chinese place,” Bill holds out his palm, bending his fingers down one by one. “You asked Eddie if he was married to a woman. You kept trying to make- physical contact. He looked so happy, just sitting beside you.” He continues. “I don’t know. I just h-had the feeling.”

“That was kind of a group date, wasn’t it?” Richie chugs down the rest of his Pina Colada, agreeing. He should probably join in with Eddie and Mike, whose steps have shifted from air Polka to erotic cock fight, and his husband isn’t winning. 

He should probably drag the romance guru along too. 

Bill shifts his legs as if he’s nervous.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure, dude,” Richie smirks. “Of course you don’t.” 

  
  
  
  
  


The truth is, only one soul in the entire world— not two, not six, _one_ — has the full story. And that person isn’t Richie.

Eddie Kaspbrak remembers the moment he knew he was in love. It’s not from twenty something years ago, regrettably yet fortunately, since there would’ve been no way for him to handle it without ruining the whole thing. Sure, the playbacks still roll on in the back of his mind, an outstandingly annoying little asshole, two front teeth too big for his mouth, grinning against the ochre sunset of Derry with a skewed mouth; he pushes his bike, and at some point smugly a longboard, dumping out bawdy jokes straight from his brain like he had someone to impress. Eddie treasured that, however embarrassing it was, but they weren’t Bev and Bill. He didn’t _want_ them to be Bev and Bill. 

He didn’t want to be Ben, either.

It wasn’t at the Jade of the Orient, though the realization edged daily close upon him in between shots of Shaojiu. Richie’s palm is large and rough against his, his breaths scorching, and it did make him wonder, at a point, if the world outside that slightly fretting touch and loud, uninhabited laugh is actually something he cared about at all. However, those wandering ideas were truncated short by fortune cookies with limbs and eyeballs and shrieking mouths. There’s no need to recall that.

It wasn’t when he laid in that shit filled sewer hundreds of feet underground, with the darkness around him spinning and melting down with each of his breaths like hungry, boiling tar ready to take him in, and to stop did seem easy and logical enough. _Don’t you fucking dare,_ Richie was chanting against his hair something to that nature. _Don’t you fucking dare, Eds. Please, please, please. Don’t die on me you fucking asshole. I love you. Eddie. Don’t you fucking dare._

So he didn’t.

He didn’t stop until Richie let him, when the darkness was exchanged for distant clamors and light so bright that it pierced through his closed eyelids. And Richie had his hand in a grip, before the doors were closed and Eddie started drifting away. He woke up to a light blue ceiling and pale white vent. Richie was beside him, squished in a chair, face planted down on his— their— hands. Eddie could feel his breath, filling the space trapped under his nose.

“Hey,” Eddie said, moving his wrist. His voice was raspy. He felt more dazed than tired. “Rich.”

Richie looked up, mouth opened like he’d forgotten how to speak.

“Did we do it?”

“Eddie,” that was the only word he managed before he bursted into tears. He was still holding Eddie’s hand like one would hold a wounded bird, and the tears dripped down all over it. Eddie wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen him cry before _._ Not like this. “Yeah we fucking did it.” Richie gives him an wet, efforted smile. “Fucking hell, Eds.”

The inside of his mouth still tasted like hot tar. 

“Is there any ice cream,” Eddie asked, since that was the opposite of that texture he hoped to cleanse off his tongue.

“Oh,” Richie stopped sobbing for a brief second. There was something new about his expression, yet Eddie couldn’t put his finger on it. His voice was panicked, almost undone. “Like soft serve?”

“Soft serve would be good.”

“Cone?”

_Oh._

“Cone.”

“Alright- I’m gonna go find some,” Richie stumbled to stand up. There’s a line of red marks along his jaw, dented in by pressing for too long on Eddie’s knuckles. “Sorry for the crying.”

“Richie,” Eddie croaked. “Stay.”

So Richie does. They sat there for a while in oddly comforting silence.

“There’s this ice cream shop near my place, just around the corner.” Richie started softly. “They make artisanal soft serves. There’s a display out front, roasted strawberry- they make it look like Elmo. ”

“Is it good?”

“I don’t know. I never went in.”

“We should try it.” Eddie decided. “I want to try it.”

Richie looked at him and smiled, his mouth slanted.

 _Oh,_ Eddie thought. _It’s easy after all._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I really enjoyed writing this & hope you liked it too : >  
> Title is from The Origin of Love by Stephen Task, in Hedwig and the Angry Inch.


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